Painful Spoon Confetti
by PrincessPears
Summary: The love story told to those who have no knowledge of Bethyl.


Painful Spoon Confetti: A Summary

It is tradition to throw confetti in celebration, especially in union of two souls in love, but like all other traditions, the throwing of confetti has evolved from throwing seeds and fruit and sweets, and is evolving again. No longer will us Bethylers choose tiny papers bits as our showing of celebration. No, instead we will use spoons.

Years from now, the giggling toothless faces of young children will ask "Why spoons?" And it will be us, the ones who saw the innocent farm girl and the overly grumpy yet sensitive redneck as our one true pairing, who will know the true origin of the spoons. We would get that far off look in our eyes, as we silently reminisced about the early days in that run down abandoned country club filled with walkers while on a mission for some alcohol. We would chuckle as we thought about how silly it sounded. Their story certainly didn't start off like the ones you'd read about in books you picked up in the grocery store check out line, with the bare chested man on the cover, but it was like any other great love story: romantic in it's own way.

They would communicate, when necessary or out of pure annoyance, with grunts, insults, and shouts. He would roll his eyes and curse her dangerous hunt for booze, and she would stand up for herself, not particularly giving a shit what he thought at that 'd look at them and see nothing but walls. She'd find that spoon, the one that all of us were so fond of that read 'Washington D.C.', and stuff it in her bag, continuing her search. It was only when the young blonde started crying over a bottle of liquor, finally allowing herself to mourn the death of her beloved father, that the archer would realize this was something that needed to happen, with his own spin on it of course. He'd grab the bottle from her hands, smashing it to the floor, nobly proclaiming that her first drink wasn't "gonna be no damn peach schnapps".

He'd made sure they found what they needed in the moonshine shack. Anyone with eyes was able to see the tension between them. She called him Mr. Dixon, and made him play that party game, the one that somehow always ends up being dirty, and of course it would lead to hurt feelings. He'd yell some more, always a mean drunk, and she'd scream right back. She'd break down the walls between them. The songbird would finally realize that the man in the leather vest just needed a hug. They'd talk and it would be okay. She'd tell him he was going to be the last man standing, while he urged her to stop talking like that, knowing how painful it would be. As if reading his mind, the angel would continue on, telling him he was going to miss her, so bad, when she was gone.

It was her idea to set fire to the shack, with sparks in her eyes, hoping it would take the past with it, and it was also on her insistence that they gestured a big "fuck you" as the structure and painful memories burned to the ground.

A little later on in their story, she'd be holding his precious crossbow, teaching her the skills she needed to survive, while she held her head high with a proud grin. While tracking, he'd tell her the signs were all there, that she just had to know how to read them, and that was epic foreshadowing at it's finest.

Her foot would get caught, her ankle would twist, while he rushed to her side to see if she was alright. He'd give her a serious piggyback as they made their way to a house. His cynical side would come out once again, and she'd push it away, telling him there were still good people in the world. They'd see a grave, one that reminded her of her daddy, and he'd hold her hand, silently telling her that everything would be okay, while setting down flowers as a nice gesture.

Once inside, they'd find it was a funeral home. Again, not the most romantic setting, but it worked, for them. He'd wrap her foot and she would convince him there was still beauty to be seen. She'd sit down at the piano, poking at keys while she sang. He would stand behind her, out of sight, perfectly content just watching. She'd stop when she realized he was there, but he would tell her to keep singing. To always keep singing.

He had prepared a meal for them, and when her injured leg made her a bit slow, she'd giggle as he swept her up in his arms, carrying her over the threshold. Later, sharing their candle lit dinner of jelly and pigs feet, they'd get interrupted by a dog. He'd tell her to stay back, it's not safe. But he said it was a dog, and she'd giggle, it was like they were normal. They'd resume their meal, and she'd want to leave the owners of the home a note, thanking them. He'd suggest they stay there a while, to thank them in person. It was then she realized, he still believed in good people. She'd urge him to explain. "What changed your mind?" He'd avoid the question with mumbles and shrugged shoulders. Then he would look at her from beneath his greasy bangs, speaking to her with his eyes. A breathless "Oh" would escape her mouth as she realized it was her. She was the reason he believed in good people. She had changed his mind.

Interrupted again by the clanging of tin cans, he would let his guard down, finally feeling comfortable for the first time in a long time. He'd pull open the door and there would be no dog. They were ambushed. He'd yell for her to get to safety. She'd desperately tell him that she wasn't leaving him, but he'd win in the end. They were to meet at the road.

He was out of breath and shaking by the time he made it there, only to see the contents of her bag spilled on the ground. He'd look up in time to see the car speeding away, and he'd run. He ran all night, knowing it was impossible but that he still had try. He'd collapse at a crossroad, and felt broken. The flame in the darkness had been ripped from his life.

He never gave up hope. She had always told him to have faith, and he heard it loud and clear. He was back with his family, and felt crushed. Beth was the one who knew they'd find each other. "She's alive." He would tell her sister, and he believed the words that left his mouth.

He'd go through hell and back to find her. And when they had found her kidnappers, the family made sure Beth would be reunited with them. The old west stand off in a dark hospital hallway was like something out of a dream. She'd walk towards him, and his hand would brush her back, having to touch her to know that she was really there. It felt like home, to have her near him again, but he would once again let his guard down. She'd escape right by him, standing up for what she believed in, always optimistic that good would triumph over evil. That wasn't the case when it was a tiny pair of scissors against a hand gun.

He saw red, both figuratively and literally, as the blood stained her golden hair. He'd yank his own gun out, not an ounce of thought before he pulled the trigger, her shooter falling to the ground in a heap. He'd cry at the image, the blood pooling around her small body would be a sight he feared he'd never be able to erase from his brain.

Gathered up in his arms, he'd carry her bridal style, so bittersweet, down five flights of stairs and out to her awaiting sister. The one waiting for good news. She'd drop to her knees, a scream was heard before sobs overtook her frame. He wouldn't let go, continuing to cry while he cradled the pretty woman close.

Weeks later, three to be exact, he would be walking around, closing himself off further and further from those who were left that still cared about him. He'd say he was looking for water or water, using it as an excuse to escape their concerned looks for even a little bit. He would be given her knife as a gift, and he knew he would cherish it forever. His close friend would tell him he needed to feel.

Eventually, he would feel as he tried to suck the nicotine into his system, wanting to calm his nerves, his feelings, his pains. After a couple drags, he would realize it wasn't helping, not at all like it used to. Possibly because he hadn't known pain like this before. He'd extinguish the burning tobacco on his thumb, watching the skin blister, not feeling a thing. Nothing was compared to the absolute agony he was in on the inside. It was then he allowed himself to mourn. He'd look up at the sky, hoping that if there really was a God and a Heaven, that she was up there right now, with her momma, her daddy, her brother, and all the others they had lost, hopefully looking down on him.

He'd fix the music box, the one that was given to her sister as something to remember her by, and he would remember how she had once fixed him. It would be painful to hear a melody again, but it would be worth it in the end.

The ones listening to us tell this story would hang on every word with tears in their eyes, both at the sadness and the beauty, wondering why we would associate such a story with a celebration. But what they needed to remember was that true love always finds a way, and not everything is as it seems.

"But why the spoons?" They'd question.

And we'd have one answer, and we'd say it with a knowing smile on our faces. "Washington D.C., of course." And it was then that the audience would know, there was more of this story than what they had been told.

We would know, and it'd show in our eyes, why we associated spoons with this epic love story. Spoons are much more inconvenient for confetti, hurt a bit more than paper when thrown, and are somewhat confusing to an outside but that's okay because it's what we're used too. We're used to the inconvenience, we're used to the hurt, and we're used to the confusion, but we know in the end, it's all worth it.


End file.
